


The Light That Shines Behind Your Eyes

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Double Penetration, Hetalia Kink Meme, Historical, Illustrated, Kink Meme, Love, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-05
Updated: 2009-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:19:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America was never England's favorite or most important colony. One night during the 1929 World Fair in Barcelona, Arthur discovers that Alfred has known this for quite some time. (Despite his absence from the summary, there's a lot of Matthew in this. I'm sorry for my summary!fail, Matthew!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Light That Shines Behind Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [The Hetalia Kink Meme](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com). Inspired in part by [this post and fanart](http://community.livejournal.com/hetalia/2109587.html) at [the main Hetalia comm](http://hetalia.livejournal.com/profile).
> 
> Includes the most adorable art of baby!Alfred and baby!Matthew by [Bratty](http://bratty.deviantart.com/), illustrating one of Arthur's memories in the fic. ♥

_Barcelona, Spain – July 1929_

The British Empire doesn't know whether it is amusing or pathetic that he's come to Barcelona for the Expo, and yet for the third night in a row he's wound up in one of the city's few legitimate English pubs with various of the Dominions and Crown Colonies for drinking partners. Tonight, for example, he's been sat at a table with New Zealand, Fiji, and West Indies. At this rate, he may as well have stayed in Newcastle Upon Tyne—no, scratch that. If he'd stayed at the North East Coast Exhibition, he would have missed the entertainment of watching America make a happy arse of himself.

At the moment, Alfred is as much a spectacle as any of the pavilion exhibitions and more entertaining, even though Arthur can't hear what he's saying. He's flushed and waving his arms about with exuberance, his own natural and probably some drink-induced as well. Arthur imagines he's talking about how the hamburger he ate at the Fair today is the best burger he's ever had in his life, even though Arthur is absolutely certain no burgers were served at the Fair. Well, maybe over at the Ibero-American Exhibition in Seville. In which case it was probably at Alfred's own pavillion that he had a burger, and that would mean he's traveled the 800 or so kilometers to Barcelona just to brag about his own hamburgers. He'd have to have driven like a madman to get here. Or perhaps he rented a private aeroplane, finally put that bomber jacket of his to purposeful use. Arthur pictures Alfred barnstorming across Europe, advocating the hamburger with all the fierce enthusiasm he's displaying now—

But as Alfred turns and his eyes slide across Arthur's face, crossing Arthur's gaze without lingering; as Arthur gets a good look at Alfred's face, he sees something there that is fierce, but decidedly is not enthusiasm. There's a jumble of emotions and Arthur can't read them all, but he does see anger. That flailing, then, could get dangerous.

And in the next moment it does, as Alfred tries to get up and knocks over his chair, nearly knocks himself over, grabs at the table to steady himself and nearly knocks _that_ over, then succeeds in righting himself and the table, but not before several glasses have slid off and crashed to the floor.

As Arthur rises to go sort out Alfred, he sees that the Dominion and Colonies sharing his own table are neither laughing at his former colony nor expressing outrage; instead, there is a sort of solidarity in the concern on their faces, and Arthur finds himself unaccountably pleased.

Though he could, of course, walk off without a word to them, he nevertheless excuses himself politely. By the time he's got through the civilities of good evenings and turned towards Alfred again, he sees someone else is there already—ah, it's Canada. That's all right, then. Matthew must have been sitting with Alfred all along. He's picking up the chair, getting Alfred to hold onto it to steady himself while Matthew picks up some of the other items that fell off when the table tilted—oh, leave those, Matthew! There are people to do that, you know. Arthur knows that Matthew does know, and also that Matthew will continue to straighten up anyhow, just as he's almost certainly making apologies he shouldn't have to. Now he's got his shoulder under Alfred's arm to shore him up, and off they go.

Arthur could sit down and have another drink. But he's already excused himself, and while he knows no one would say anything about the awkwardness of reseating himself, Arthur decides to be off as well. Besides, Matthew might need help wrangling the cowboy.

He doesn't see them when he exits the pub, but then he hears their voices—or Alfred's, unmistakably—coming from a side alley. Rounding the corner, he sees them halted. Matthew seems to have it under control and Arthur is just thinking perhaps he ought to go back inside for one last drink, after all, when Alfred pushes himself away from Matthew—and then pushes Matthew. Another shove, and Matthew has to take a backwards step; he winds up with his back to the wall, and as Alfred launches himself at Matthew, who puts up his hands, Arthur starts forward with a shout rising in his throat—

And then stops as Matthew pulls Alfred against him.

When their mouths part, Matthew—straightening his glasses before wrapping his arms 'round Alfred to hold him up as much as in the embrace, judging by the way Alfred is slumping against him—looks over Alfred's shoulder and says, "It's all right. He gets like this now and then."

With a start and a quick glance behind himself, Arthur realizes Matthew is addressing him. Perhaps the shout had escaped him, after all. Closing the remainder of the distance at a more dignified pace now, Arthur says, "Would you like some help with him?"

"Yes," Matthew says at the same that Alfred, his vehemence muffled against Matthew's shoulder, says, "No!"

Alfred lifts his head and Arthur watches the brothers regard each other. Something passes between them; if there are words, Arthur doesn't hear them. Alfred's gaze drops, his face downturning with it. Matthew leans his forehead against Alfred's and Arthur expects them to kiss again, but they only stay like that.

When Alfred turns his face away, Matthew looks at Arthur. "Yes," he says again, offering a smile as he adds, "thank you."

As Matthew begins to maneuver himself into position at Alfred's side, Arthur steps in to take Alfred's other arm. Alfred lets Arthur sling his arm across Arthur's shoulders, hand 'round Alfred's wrist to keep him in place, but Alfred won't look at him. Even as they start off, Alfred keeps his head turned entirely towards Matthew. Which would be fine, if it didn't cause Alfred to tangle his feet with Arthur's, making them both stumble and nearly taking them all down.

"Alfred, for heaven's sake! At least mind where you're putting your feet!"

Alfred's jaw clenches visibly and he still won't look over at Arthur, but he does appear to start watching his own feet, at least, and they make it back to the hotel without further incident.

Once inside Alfred's room, Alfred frees himself from them and deposits himself sideways in the nearest chair. Locating the liquor cabinet, Arthur walks straight to it and fixes himself a gin and tonic. When he turns around, he sees Matthew has perched himself on the edge of the bed, leaving the other chair for Arthur. Good lad. Bottle still in hand, Arthur raises it in offer to Matthew, who smiles but declines with a polite shake of his head.

As Arthur sits down, Alfred says to the wall, "Don't offer me any."

Arthur takes a long, slow sip, savoring the flash of warmth that slides down the back of his throat. "I shan't. You've had quite enough already."

"You." Alfred looks at him and then away as soon as their eyes meet. "You're not the boss of me."

Arthur expects him to get up and wobble over to the liquor, but Alfred only folds himself up into the chair. Attempts to, anyhow: his legs are too long, and while he manages to tuck one up, the other won't fit and winds up falling in a stretch to the floor. As Alfred isn't looking at him, Arthur doesn't bother trying to hide his amusement, though he has the grace not to provoke Alfred by laughing aloud.

Despite Alfred's mood, Arthur finds it pleasant to sit in a room with the two of them, just the three of them, something he hasn't done in ages. He takes his time with his drink.

In the silence, Alfred shifts around more, trying unsuccessfully to get his legs up in the chair again before giving up, letting both feet drop and slumping in the chair so that he seems in danger of falling out of it entirely.

"Do you want us to go?" Matthew says from the edge of the bed.

"No," Alfred says. Then he amends, pointing at Arthur without looking at him, "Yes"; his arm swings 'round to point at Matthew, whom he does look at as he says, "No."

"I'll go when I've finished." Arthur raises his glass to drain the last drops of gin. "I believe I'll have another."

Just as he reaches the liquor cabinet, he hears shuffling and rustling, and turns to see Alfred joining Matthew on the bed.

It puts Arthur in mind of when they were small, before they were separated. Later it would be Arthur's bed Alfred would turn to, but there had been a time when they were wee things that Alfred would climb into Matthew's bed when he'd had a nightmare or couldn't get warm or simply _wanted_ to.

Instead of lying down and cuddling up with his brother, though, Alfred straddles Matthew's lap and leans in; there's the soft _clack_ as the frames of their glasses meet before their mouths find each other. This, of course, is not something from their childhood. Arthur can't be sure which of them is making those mewling sounds, but suspects it is Alfred. How very pretty. Sipping his refreshed drink, Arthur sits in the chair once more.

When Alfred sits back and shrugs out of his jacket, then starts fumbling at the buttons of his shirt, Matthew covers Alfred's hand with his own. "Arthur is still here."

"Don't care." Alfred slips his hand free and drags up the hem of his shirt, trying to wrestle it off overhead and tangling himself hopelessly. This time Arthur doesn't suppress his laughter, though he does keep it to a chuckle so low Alfred almost certainly can't hear it through the fabric in which his head is caught.

There's a tearing sound and a couple of buttons fly through the air before Matthew manages to get Alfred's hands and the shirt back down. "Do these for me, okay?" Alfred says, having another go at the buttons that remain as Matthew adjusts the angle of Alfred's glasses, which had been knocked askew in the tangle. "Do these and you can fuck me, okay?"

Arthur re-crosses his legs as Matthew smiles at Alfred. Arthur doesn't think it's his imagination that Matthew's eyes slide to him for the briefest touch of gaze before Matthew says to Alfred, "But you always like to be on top, don't you?"

"Oh, I still will be!"

So it'll be Alfred riding Matthew, will it? Arthur must confess he did not anticipate this turn of events when he exited the pub, but he _does_ anticipate that it will be worth staying for; his cock, rousing in his pants, seems to agree.

This time as the boys kiss, Matthew takes Alfred's hands and puts them down at his side. Arthur think it'd be prettier if Matthew put those hands behind Alfred's back, but as Matthew undoes the buttons and slips the shirt off Alfred's shoulders, Arthur sees the point of his practicality. Once the shirt has been tossed to the floor, Matthew asks Alfred to move off his lap.

"Make me." Alfred's mouth, at least the side Arthur can see, quirks up in a smile and even from across the room, Arthur can sense the glimmer in his eye.

The push Matthew gives his brother is far more gentle than the one Arthur would have given him, but then Arthur supposes Alfred only dared to say what he did because he knew Matthew would go so easy.

Once on his back, Alfred manages to undo his belt while Matthew tends to his feet, ridding him of shoes and socks. When Matthew moves back up to him, Alfred lifts his hips without being told so Matthew can draw off his trousers and pants. Arthur can't recall the last time he saw Alfred naked, but he knows it wasn't like this. His little boy has grown up, indeed.

Alfred sits up and makes an effort to assist Matthew out of his clothing, but his hands prove more of an impediment than a help; he yields to another mild push and lies back to let Matthew carry on unhindered. As Matthew undresses, Arthur watches Alfred watch, Alfred lazily stroking his cock, valiantly erect despite the alcohol coursing through his blood. Appreciative, Arthur lets his hand linger in his own clothed lap.

Naked now himself, Matthew fetches something—lubricant, Arthur assumes—from the nightstand drawer and climbs onto the bed once more. Squeezing out a generous dollop and coating his fingers, Matthew reaches between Alfred's legs. Alfred jerks and twists when Matthew touches him, and for a fleeting moment, overwhelming despite its brevity, Arthur thinks he's about to witness the taking of Alfred's virginity.

Then Alfred hisses, "Cold."

Matthew smiles down at him with unmistakably fond indulgence. "Sorry. It's cold when you do it to me, too, you know."

"Yeah." Alfred grins up. "But you _like_ the cold!"

Still smiling, Matthew leans down to kiss Alfred again as he slips his hand between Alfred's legs; from the sudden arch of Alfred's back, Arthur knows at least one of Matthew's fingers is inside him.

When Matthew withdraws to coat his fingers with more lubricant, he gets Alfred to shift around a little; as Matthew resumes fingering his brother, Arthur thinks it can't be a coincidence that he now has an excellent view between Alfred's spread legs, of Matthew's fingers plunging in and out of Alfred's arsehole. Oh, Matthew is _such_ a good lad!

Alfred's eyes appear to be closed, or perhaps he's looking down at himself as he continues to play with his cock. The sound he makes when Matthew asks if he's comfortable can only be described as a purr. Arthur is provoked to pet himself in response.

"Want me just to keep doing this?" Matthew twists his wrist as he slides his fingers in this time, making Alfred flush and arch as Matthew presumably finds his prostate.

"N-no~" Alfred gasps as Matthew makes him arch again. "Your cock. Oh god, Matt, fill me with your fucking cock—" If he was going to say more, the words are lost as Matthew takes Alfred's mouth in another kiss.

In the wake of that kiss, they rearrange themselves and Matthew takes a moment to slick up his cock before lying back, head on the pillows. Alfred straddles him and reaches back to position Matthew's cock; a low whine emits from the back of his throat as he's denied by his own drink-addled motor skills, but Matthew takes one hand off Alfred's hips and guides himself in. Alfred takes his time settling on Matthew's cock, takes him in slowly, slowly, until Matthew is seated inside him to the hilt.

They begin to move then. Over and over, Alfred pushes himself up and down on Matthew's cock, Matthew's hips rising to meet him, Matthew's hands on Alfred's hips steadying him in the rhythm. Both of them are flushed beautifully. The air is punctuated only by heavy breaths, thickening softly to sighs and the occasional outright moan; Matthew, of course, is hushed as ever in his pleasure, but Alfred's quietness comes as a surprise to Arthur. "He gets like this now and then," Arthur hears Matthew say, but when he moves his gaze to Matthew's face, Matthew is entirely focused on Alfred and Arthur suppose he was only remembering Matthew's words in the alley.

Then he does hear Matthew's voice outside his own head: "Here," Matthew says to Alfred, interrupting the rhythm as he adjusts their positions. Instead of the profile view Arthur has been enjoying, now Arthur has a view of Alfred's back, the ridges of his spine, his arse, Matthew's cock disappearing inside it, reappearing as Alfred rides up, disappearing again as Alfred slides down it.

Then the view shifts subtly as Alfred leans down—or perhaps is pulled down, judging by the hand at the back of his neck—for another kiss; and now Arthur can see Alfred's arsehole stretching open to accommodate the thrusts of Matthew's considerable thickness, that sweet little hole opening more in invitation.

Arthur accepts.

Littering the floor with his clothing, he crosses to the boys, smearing precome over his head and down his cock.

They don't stop fucking when he climbs onto the bed. He straddles Matthew's legs and places a hand against the small of Alfred's back to hush their movements as he traces Matthew's cock with his cockhead, coming to rest with a nudge just where Matthew is engulfed by Alfred.

The touch does more than quiet them: it brings them to a complete halt. Alfred looks over his shoulder at Arthur, really looks at him for the first time tonight; really looks at him for the first time in years, in years and years.

"I don't," Alfred says, then stops. He bites his lip but doesn't look away.

"You don't want this?" Arthur nudges against Alfred's hole again, making Alfred's breath catch and his lashes flutter.

Even in the flutter, Alfred holds the gaze. "I don't know if I can."

"I think you can." Arthur almost adds something about Alfred being a hero, after all, who can do anything—but reconsiders that Alfred might take it for mockery instead of humor. So he only nudges again, and watches Alfred flutter and swallow open-mouthed what Arthur likes to believe is a moan.

Alfred doesn't say anything then, but he turns forward and lowers himself closer to Matthew. Matthew's arms come 'round Alfred's back, one hand going up to stroke his hair (and good god, when did these boys become so fucking _pretty_ like this?). Matthew's other hand soothes down along Alfred's spine, over his tailbone to cup the swell of his arse with a comforting squeeze before his thumb digs in to pull Alfred open a little wider. Matthew, oh Matthew—you are such a _good_ lad!

As Arthur pushes in, he actually has to push. His cockhead follows the path of Matthew's cock, the sinking in not smooth but measured in tiny, tight fractions. Arthur pauses as Alfred's body, already adjusted to Matthew's cock, seeks instinctively to accommodate Arthur's; he pauses to bask in the heat of Alfred surrounding him; of Matthew there with him, pressed so closely to him that Matthew's heat and vibrations almost seem Arthur's own.

Then Arthur feels it, the give, the gorgeous yield of flesh as Alfred's body finds the shape of Arthur's and Matthew's cocks together; as he pushes in more, that last little bit of more that Alfred can take, Arthur confirms that Alfred is the one who's been mewling. He bends to kiss Alfred's nape, and kisses Matthew's fingers instead when they get there first.

With each roll of his hips, Arthur fucks Alfred's arse and Matthew's cock in the same movement, fucking their trembling away, making them tremble more. Their fucking is slow, slow and full; everything in small movements, anything more than that impossible. Arthur closes his eyes to let the fullness of it wash over and through him, even though he is not the one being filled.

All of Alfred's words are coming out stuttered, but Arthur surmises they're mostly "fuck" and "please," although he does hear Matthew's name a few times, and maybe even his own. Opening his eyes, Arthur looks at Matthew, then reaches over Alfred's shoulder to take off Matthew's glasses: it's only proper to remove one's glasses when kissing another, especially when that other wears glasses as well; good manners and commonsensical as well, when one considers the physical dynamics. Which the boys have been ignoring up to now, and it's been pretty enough for Arthur to overlook it as well, but he doesn't think any of them want the distraction of frames sliding against frames, vision knocked askew anymore.

After depositing the glasses on the nightstand, Arthur pushes gently on the back of Alfred's head, pushes the boys into a kiss, wanting it to be a command but feeling the boys take it for encouragement.

Then Arthur wedges a thumb between their mouths, nudging Alfred off and leaning forward, torso flush to Alfred's back, pressing Alfred even closer to Matthew, as Arthur takes Matthew's mouth for himself.

Their kiss is as slow as the fucking, and deeper. As Arthur continues to roll his hips in small, shallow thrusts, feeling the slide with and against Matthew, feeling Alfred quiver around them, he offers his tongue to Matthew, sucking on Matthew's when it slips into his mouth.

At the end of the kiss, just as they part, Arthur leans in again to lick Matthew's upper lip, tongue sweeping along and curling just under; backing off for a hint of breath, and then punctuating it all with a soft, chaste kiss just at the corner of Matthew's mouth.

"You remembered," Matthew murmurs, a smile on his kissed lips, a smile in his eyes.

"Of course," Arthur murmurs back, smiles back.

"What—" Between them, Alfred struggles for movement, and then before either of them can accommodate him, he goes still. Not limp—rigid and tense, fighting the instinct to move with Arthur's continued thrusts. Alfred turns to look over his shoulder at Arthur, who now is braced up on his arms. "Did you _ever_ like me? Even a little bit?"

Alfred's words sound as if they ought to belong to some sort of joke, but Alfred isn't smiling, not with his eyes nor his mouth nor anywhere else. A quick glance shows Arthur that Matthew isn't smiling any longer, either.

When Arthur looks back, he finds Alfred still looking at him. Alfred's face is flushed with something other than arousal, other than alcohol. It occurs to Arthur that this is similar to the look he saw on Alfred across the pub earlier; up close now, he reads it as anger and sadness and, most unaccountably, hurt.

"What in the King's name are you talking about?"

"The King's name," Alfred repeats with a touch of bitterness—though less, Arthur realizes, than he might have expected. Then even that trace vanishes as Alfred says, "This isn't the first time you've kissed Matt like that."

"No, it's not." Arthur's brow furrows. Neither of the boys is moving, so even though his position still feels remarkably good to him, and his cock, his entire body are telling his hips to move, Arthur's brain countermands that.

"You've never kissed me like that," Alfred says plaintively, and before Arthur can point out that this particular kiss has been designed especially for Matthew and what he likes, Alfred finally gets to it: "You've never kissed me at all," he says, turning away from Arthur, but not quite back to Matthew.

"I kissed you loads of times when you were small," Arthur says.

"On the forehead," Alfred says. "On the cheek. Never on the mouth."

"For heaven's sake, Alfred—I'm _fucking_ you right now. My _cock_ is up your _arse_." To drive home his point, Arthur moves his hips in the smallest, most gentle thrust he can manage. He's pleased to feel Alfred contract and shudder around him. But there's no other response.

So perhaps they haven't got to it, after all. Arthur can feel Matthew going soft against him, soft enough that Arthur's cock is likely the only thing keeping Matthew inside Alfred now. Arthur suspects that if he were to reach between the boys, which he won't do, he'd find Alfred has gone soft as well.

With a sigh, Arthur pulls out. Sure enough, Matthew slips out as well. When Arthur sits back, Alfred shifts off Matthew.

"What is this about?" Arthur asks. Alfred doesn't answer, but Arthur knows full well Alfred is aware the question is meant for him. "We're not going anywhere until you talk to me."

Alfred still doesn't speak, but Matthew says, "Maybe I should g—" Before Matthew can finish the word, Alfred drapes an arm and leg over him. Arthur can't help smiling a little; such a beautiful but such an _aggravating_ one, that Alfred. Meeting Matthew's eyes, Arthur nods, seconding the invitation to stay.

When it becomes clear that Matthew's not leaving, Alfred rolls onto his other side. After a moment Alfred shivers; instead of reaching for the covers, he reaches back for Matthew's hand and tugs. Matthew obliges by tucking up behind and wrapping an arm 'round Alfred, who continues holding Matthew's hand.

It puts Arthur in mind of when they were babies and he'd find them curled 'round each other. He recalls, too, how when they were that small, if Alfred wasn't able to maneuver his thumb into his mouth, he'd be just as content to suck on Matthew's. Or Matthew's foot, if that's what was available. Alfred still hasn't outgrown that habit of putting everything imaginable, and some things unimaginable, into his mouth; nor the less charming habit of not being able, on occasion, to distinguish boundaries. In this instance, though, Matthew doesn't seem to mind. If he needs Arthur's help, Arthur knows he'll ask—though these days Matthew, like so many of the others, doesn't seem to want much help from Arthur.

Arthur sighs. After a moment, he reaches over and runs his fingers through Matthew's hair, lingering to wind the curl 'round his finger before slipping out of the loose coil.

After another moment, he dares to rest his hand on Alfred's head. When Alfred doesn't shake him off, Arthur begins to stroke his hair, smoothing back that insistently upright forelock. Alfred's chest rises and falls with an especially deep breath before evening out.

"Now," Arthur says softly, continuing to pet Alfred, "are you ready to tell me what this is about?"

At first Alfred only breathes, steadily, wordlessly. Then, without moving, he says, "When I was a little kid, I thought you really loved me a lot." There's a pause, but not enough of one for Arthur to say anything before Alfred continues, "I thought I was your favorite. I thought I was _important_ to you."

Alfred sounds like a little kid right now, but Arthur doesn't think it would be prudent to tell him so. "You _were_ important to me."

"But not your _most_ important." Alfred shifts onto his back, looking up at Arthur. "Not your _favorite_. Your favorite was West Indies." Alfred blinks and rubs at his eye with a loose fist, causing his glasses to ride up and making him look even more of a kid. "West Indies and his sugar."

Arthur's never seen the point in denying the truth, so he chooses not to say anything. He's about to point out that not being the favorite and not being liked are two entirely different things, when curiosity strikes him, because Alfred was never the most perceptive child. "How did you arrive at that?"

There's the merest hesitation before Alfred says, "Someone told me."

"Someone?"

Alfred won't answer, but Arthur doesn't need him to. Yes, well, he'll have to remember to have a word about the etiquette of keeping one's French nose in one's own French business the next time he bloody sees _someone_.

"But I showed my worth in the War!" Alfred says, a note of pride washing out the other emotions so recently in his voice. "I fought right along side you and all the Allies."

Arthur doesn't want to quash the gleam coming back to Alfred's eyes, but he can't bring himself to let this slide. "Yes—though West Indies contributed to victory in the Great War, too. All my Dominions and Crown Colonies did, including your brother here." He nods in Matthew's direction.

"Yeah, but," Alfred's brow furrows, "it's not the same. You controlled them."

"That hardly means their contributions, military, financial, and otherwise, count for naught."

"Arthur Currie," Matthew says. His voice is soft but his smile is wide, proud. "Vimy Ridge."

"Yes," Arthur agrees, trying to acknowledge without dwelling on that single battle. Turning the conversation back to Alfred, he points out, "You ought not put anyone else down. You weren't a full Ally, yourself." He's about to add that Alfred didn't even sign the Treaty of Versailles, but he doesn't want to get into another argument over something a decade in the past.

"That's not the point." The furrow is deepening, his face starting to flush again. "None of that is the point! The point is, I'm not worthless. I gave as much support as West Indies or any of your Colonies, I gave as many resources as all of them put together, I gave as many _lives_ , I gave _more_ …You should—I gave so _much_ , for you, for. For _everyone_ —"

Alfred is becoming overwrought, drink-fueled emotions getting the best of him. Trying to have a rational dialogue with him at this point would be futile, especially when such complex and heated matters are involved.

So Arthur tries to change the conversation's course. Remembering his earlier, unspoken point, he says, "Alfred, just because you weren't my favorite, that doesn't mean I didn't care for you. Look, when it came down to it, didn't I pick you over Japan?" But Alfred's mood will not be dissuaded by logic; he doesn't even acknowledge Arthur's words. In that case, Arthur will try to get at Alfred's own logic. "However did you come to the conclusion I don't like you at all?"

"You wanted me to fail." Alfred turns his head on the pillow so he's looking at neither Arthur nor Matthew.

"What—"

"You wanted me to fall apart. You wanted me to fail," Alfred repeats, and Arthur realizes he's talking about his civil war.

Well. Arthur cannot entirely deny it. He would have been very happy to see Alfred's bizarre—or so it seemed to him at the time, and in truth it often still does—experiment with a democratic republic fail. But it was nothing to do with Alfred. It was the dangerous implications of the experiment itself. Why oh why must Alfred take everything so personally?

"Why would you think that means I don't like you." Despite the flat inflection, Arthur is certain even Alfred can tell the words clearly are a question.

Alfred shrugs.

"Did someone tell you that?" Arthur persists.

Alfred shrugs again, but Arthur knows he's hit it. Someone can't be Francis this time, though, because Francis had been with Arthur on that matter. They all had. All except—oh, bloody hell. Arthur will fucking _kill_ that encroaching, power-hungry, imperialistic Russian bastard.

Time to get this sorted. "Alfred." When Alfred declines to respond, Arthur cups his jaw. "Alfred, look at me." He turns Alfred's face to him—but just before their eyes meet, Alfred reaches up, snatches off his own glasses, and flings them away.

"I don't _want_ to look at you."

Oh, what a stubborn child!

Arthur takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Lets go of Alfred, who turns his head away again. Arthur tries to lighten the mood with a joke—which, even as it's leaving his mouth, he knows will fall flat. But the British Empire does not retreat, and he pushes all the way through, smile on his face: "Is this what all that was about? That Great Rebellion of yours—just because you weren't number one?"

The look Alfred turns on him now is terrible. Not in its ferocity, because it isn't a fierce look at all: it's the sadness from earlier, it's the hurt without the rage. "If that's what you think," Alfred says quietly, so very quietly and yet so clearly, the calmest his voice has been all night, "then we really have nothing to talk about."

Even though Alfred is the one to look away, Arthur feels somehow as if he's the one who broke the gaze. Broke something.

Only maybe it's not broken just yet. "Equality," he says. Alfred looks back at him. "Freedom and equality."

Alfred's smile shimmers his face, shimmers his whole body.

"See," Arthur dares to attempt another lighthearted moment, "there are things I remember about you, too." He manages not to ruin it by saying _everyone_ knows why Alfred rebelled, that it's practically all Alfred talks about, then and now.

Nor does Arthur say that he may not have listened in the beginning, but he will never, ever, until the end of time and existence, forget those words spoken one rainy day on a battlefield, amidst the dead and the dying and the living, oh the _living_ —he will never forget how he saw then what America was living for.

"I want my glasses," Alfred says suddenly, breaking Arthur out of his reverie.

Smiling, Arthur reminds him gently, "You tossed them half-way across the room."

Alfred makes a displeased sound. "But I can't see you clearly. I want to see you."

"Here, then." Arthur slides down on the bed; Alfred props up on his side so their faces are level. "Better?"

Alfred doesn't say anything, but his lips curve up in a smile.

Arthur parts his lips when Alfred's touch them. They share shallow breaths for long moments, and then Arthur's tongue slips through their breathing into Alfred's mouth, giving an exploratory flick up behind Alfred's teeth; Arthur smiles in the kiss at Alfred's pleased little sigh. Their tongues twirl 'round each other, caress, twine; with one more flicking curl, they part.

Alfred falls back against the pillows, propped up on his elbows. "Do you guys want to fuck me again now?" His legs cant open. "I could suck you to get you hard."

As appealing as that is—and Arthur's stirring cock suggests to him that it is very appealing, indeed—Arthur shakes his head. He nods at Matthew, lashes flush to his cheeks, chest rising and falling in the easy rhythm of somnolence. "You should get some sleep as well."

Arthur is mildly surprised when Alfred doesn't fight him on it, merely saying okay as he lies down fully. Getting up to find a blanket, Arthur nearly steps on Alfred's glasses. He sets them on the nightstand next to Matthew's and settles the blanket over the boys.

"But you're sleeping here, too, aren't you?"

Caught out by Alfred's question, Arthur doesn't respond at first. Then he realizes the answer is only as difficult as one makes it, and they've had enough difficultness for one night. "Of course."

After turning out the lights, Arthur joins them in bed. As Arthur is slipping under the covers, Alfred says, "Good. Then you and Matt can fuck me in the morning."

Arthur smiles into Alfred's hair. "You liked that, did you?"

"Mm." With the lights out and warmth encasing him, Alfred sounds to be fading fast from consciousness, his breathing taking on a lower pitch. But then he rouses himself to say, "Felt good. Sometimes I feel like there's this hole inside me that nothing can fill. D'you ever feel that way?" He doesn't wait for a response before going on, "No matter what I do, no matter how much I eat, I can still feel that hole there. I guess it's not in my stomach like it feels sometimes, because you and Matt, you filled it up so I couldn't feel it at all." He sighs; his breath evens out; Arthur listens to the regular pattern of inhalation and exhalation.

Then Alfred murmurs, "Felt so good…"

Arthur waits, but Alfred has dropped into slumber. As he drifts off himself, Arthur doesn't know if he'll tell Alfred that Alfred isn't meant for his current isolationist policies, or if he ought to let Alfred sort that out for himself.

What he does know, the thought that lingers with him into sweetest dreams, is that in the morning he's going to fuck Alfred deeply and thoroughly, with Matthew still and for now at his side.

* * *

  


  
  
"Babies!" by [Bratty](http://bratty.deviantart.com)  
(full size image is [here](https://68.media.tumblr.com/f78505e08e830a3ad5c37b30799a46a7/tumblr_otd0o1qKak1rqrxvco5_1280.jpg))  


  
_It puts Arthur in mind of when they were babies and he'd find them curled 'round each other. He recalls, too, how when they were that small, if Alfred wasn't able to maneuver his thumb into his mouth, he'd be just as content to suck on Matthew's. Or Matthew's foot, if that's what was available._  


**Author's Note:**

> In 1929, the **International Exposition (World's Fair)** was held in Barcelona, Spain. Unrelated to Expo '29, **The Ibero-American Exhibition**—a smaller world's fair attended by many South American and North American countries, including the U.S.—was held in Seville, Spain from May 1929 – June, 1930. Also in 1929, Britain held the **North East Coast Exhibition** in Newcastle Upon Tyne.
> 
> **"The King's name"** : In 1929, George VI was on the British throne. Arthur's guess about the bitterness in Alfred's voice is that the name also invokes for Alfred the memory of George III, who was King from 1760 to 1820—years which include the American Revolution.
> 
> "If he needs Arthur's help, Arthur knows he'll ask—though these days Matthew, like so many of the others, doesn't seem to want much help from Arthur": due to their contributions and successes in WWI, many of the British colonies (including Canada) were feeling an increased sense of nationalism and new or renewed stirrings of desire for independence. 
> 
> **"Not your favorite. Your favorite was West Indies and his sugar"** : This realization was one of the requests for which the fic was written. See [British Empire](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_Empire) (the section _Americas, Africa, and the Slave Trade_ ) for more. 
> 
> **"Someone told me"** : This is purely for fic purposes. As far as I know, there is not the slightest shred of evidence to support the notion that France ever pointed out to the U.S. (or colonial America) the significance of the British Caribbean. 
> 
> Canadian Brigadier General **[Arthur Currie](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sir_Arthur_Currie#Vimy_Ridge)** was a WWI military leader. He was the chief architect of the campaign to take **[Vimy Ridge](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Vimy_Ridge)** ; though Canadian forces achieved their objective despite nearly overwhelming odds against them, the campaign ultimately failed when British forces did not achieve their objective. (As a fictional aside, this is probably why Arthur doesn't want to "dwell on that single battle" in the story.) Nevertheless, Canada took a fair measure of pride in the achievement of its forces there. 
> 
> **"You weren't a full Ally, yourself"** : The U.S. entered WWI as an "associated power" because, while it declared war on Germany, it was not at war with the Ottoman Empire or some of the Central Powers. 
> 
> **The Treaty of Versailles** : Due to ideological differences, the U.S. never signed the Treaty of Versailles at the end of WWI. 
> 
> **"When it came down to it, didn't I pick you over Japan?"** : By 1921, U.S.-Japanese relations were steadily breaking down and the U.S. was suspicious of Japan’s ambitions and relationship with Britain. The Canadian Prime Minister argued that continuing the Anglo-Japanese Alliance would alienate other nations, including the U.S. The Anglo-Japanese Alliance officially terminated on August 17, 1923. 
> 
> **"You wanted me to fall apart"** and **"They all had. All except—"** : Indeed, Russia was the only European power to support the North in the American Civil War. 
> 
> **"That encroaching, power-hungry, imperialistic Russian bastard"** : Much of 19th century Anglo-Russian relations were characterized by The Great Game, the rivalry between the two empires for supremacy in Central Asia. Although this story is set in the 20th century and does not involve Asia, I suppose Arthur has reverted to that lengthy and still-recent conflict in his thinking. The lack of clarity in Arthur's thinking is further evidenced in his "imperialist" comment—projection much, Arthur?
> 
> **"Current isolationist policies"** : Despite its involvement in WWI and in part because of disagreements over The Treaty of Versailles, American isolationism did not end with that war and would extend even into the start of WWII. 
> 
> Finally, the title is taken from lyrics to Oasis's "Acquiesce."


End file.
